


Libertango

by LelithSugar



Series: Heaven Nowadays [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Biting, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lace, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Showing Off, Stag parties, Suit Porn, Tango, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Wedding Planning, Weddings, obviously, slow burn romantic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: People tend to make assumptions about Harry and Eggsy, but they’re coming to terms with that.They’ve got their whole lives to come to terms with the fact they like it.From the same 'verse as Equilibrium and Blue Velvet. I called the first installment romance-porn, and I don’t think it’s far wrong.A series of scenes around Harry and Eggsy’s wedding.





	Libertango

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this one’s a big deal because closing the bracket on this series feels like an ending, but if you’ve enjoyed you’ll be pleased to know that, considering the surrounding fics have been non-linear, that actually means nothing and I’ve got at least another two on the boil. Regardless, thank you for all the support and encouragement.

Libertango

People are usually slightly surprised to discover that Harry Hart has a snapchat account.

They’d probably be more understanding if they were privy to his incoming messages: the major bulk tends to consist of nearly- or totally-naked photographs of his gorgeous young fiancé, often over his own shoulder in the gym mirrors so Harry can see him front and back at the same time, his casually held towel just about preserving his full frontal modesty but showing off all that freshly exertion-thickened muscle and his ever-glorious arse. Sometimes there are filters just to ring the changes, and Harry can enjoy his allocated ten seconds of ogling supplemented with cat ears or a frame of sparkling butterflies.

This is why it takes him a whole replay to realise that Eggsy and Roxy really do have comically thick Ms Doubtfire-esque facepacks on and cucumber slices over their eyes, and that it’s not the app’s latest filter. On further viewing, Roxy is holding up a glass of something fizzy and Eggsy is pointing at their matching “Bride Tribe” pyjamas … this is presumably Eggsy’s way of reassuring him that the second instalment of his stag party will involve significantly less Sambuca-vomiting and will end with him in a far better condition for the big day.

The less said about Harry’s own stag night - which began with afternoon tea themed cocktails and ended with eyebrowless Percival gallantly rescuing a Chippendale from the Thames - the better. 

***

Scotney House is the one. Harry had suspected as much when he booked the viewing, but Eggsy’s face as they start down the half-mile gated driveway seals the deal.

Harry expects him to say something then but he doesn’t; his jaw just hangs as they crawl down the gravel - he’s wary of running over one of the peacocks - towards the main entrance. It is rather grand. 

Harry brushes down the vents in his jacket and adjusts his cuffs as the valet takes the car. There’s no particular need to be suited but it certainly isn’t wrong to be; the hotel’s staff and usual patrons clearly but unseeingly appreciate Harry’s bespoke tailoring and the natural ease with which he carries it. It does of course mean it looks a bit like Eggsy, in smart jeans and a Fred Perry polo, has come to carry his golf clubs, but that’s not an assumption either of them have any objection to when there’s time for it to nudge them down the naughty little avenues of conversation it sometimes takes. It should be getting boring by now, really, but it isn’t.

The appointment was booked specifically for them to meet with the Events Manager and be shown the facilities with a wedding in mind, but Harry knows he was not direct enough to overcome the casual bias of heteronormativity. They’ve sidestepped the obvious pitfall: Eggsy’s wide eyed excitement clearly highlights him as the one to impress to make the sale, and Eggsy seems oblivious to the undertones as he’s shown the Orangery where a ceremony would be held, but Harry is confident the assumption is that he himself is a parent of one party or other, which is only fun when he’s imagining the look on their face when the penny drops. The look on Eggsy’s face. On his own. 

Sure enough, the Events Manager In full flow, slips up with something like “and I promise you your bride will love the natural lighting, it comes out wonderfully in the photographs,” and Harry catches the split second of glee in Eggsy’s eyes before the indignant tense of that beautiful jaw. 

“My  _ bride _ is behind you so you can ask him yourself.”

Harry  _ almost  _ feels sorry for her then: for the panic in her eyes as she watches however many thousand pounds go up in smoke; for the very smooth, swift and professional apology though Harry can spot the way the nerves stick in her demeanour as she carries on, confidence shaken, unaware of Eggsy’s grin behind her back. He’s a tart for it, really.  Loves any opportunity to spell it out in words of one syllable to people he thinks might be uncomfortable, but Harry will give her the benefit of the doubt because she includes them both equally then without awkwardness and it truly is a beautiful building, and the look on Eggsy’s face when he sees the chandeliers in the ballroom is nothing short of magical. 

After their tour, they take an unhurried stroll through the garden hand in hand, which is a comparative rareity, and Harry can’t help but picture their photographs here: looking like the lords of the manor they might have been if Harry hadn’t so thoroughly put his family’s noses out of joint. They’ll be too ‘polite’ to turn down the invitations he’s too polite not to send them, though, so he’ll have that to deal with on the day, or not… . He’ll stick them on a side table and they’ll make their excuses as soon as the toasts are done and save him the hassle, or someone will come down with a mysterious illness. He can live in hope. 

“This… is a castle, Harry,” Eggsy says when they’re standing on the patio, sipping coffees whilst paperwork is arranged in an office somewhere, quotes drawn up that Harry isn’t all that bothered about the numbers on. He’s too happy. 

“We can afford it.”

“ _ You _ can afford it.” 

It’s rare this comes up these days. Kingsman has provided Eggsy with his own more than adequate means by his own standards but admittedly there hasn’t been enough time for that to stack up enough to marry in a place like this and not miss the change. 

“What’s mine is yours and all that,” is all the time Harry gives it now, reaching for Eggsy’s belt loops so he can pull him to face him, part private sincerity, part hoping they can brush those hesitations aside as quickly as a kiss. 

“I think you’re getting a shit deal.”

But Eggsy does kiss him and in there is acceptance, a hint of a struggle sidestepped as Harry kisses that faux-pout right off Eggsy’s bottom lip, and if the afternoon tea crowd starting to file out onto the veranda get a nice view of the two of them, suited gent and bright young thing, of the way they press closer, half forgetting themselves in the romantic peace of the afternoon sunshine, well then… lucky them. 

“I’m bloody not.”

Harry’s almost forgotten what they’re talking about but Eggsy hasn’t; looks up at him with that knowingly sly expression that says he’s got Harry’s card thoroughly marked. 

“You thinking about me earning my keep?”

Only ever in fun, their oldest favourite game but it may well have crossed Harry’s mind that the words  _ gold digger  _ have probably crossed everybody else’s. He smiles against Eggsy’s ear, let’s him feel teeth against the shell, voice deliberately low.

“I’m thinking about asking if they’ve got a suite we can take for a test drive this evening. What time are we due at your mother’s tomorrow?”

“Not until dinner.”

“Excellent.”

Inadvertent homophobia aside, the venue couldn’t be more perfect for the unexpected dream that’s unfolding between them, and as manners - and possibly very slightly making a point to the staff - dictate, Harry folds the proposal into his breast pocket without allowing Eggsy to see the figure. His promise is to make a decision by the end of the week, after dinner and a night’s stay and with time to discuss it with his fiancé here…  _ have they noted that down, have they taken enough notice of how bloody gorgeous and exotically our of place he looks in their lobby, like a Michelangelo in jeans and timberlands, but burnished gold and with a bigger cock.. _ . but they’ve already decided. 

Momentary inappropriate reveries aside, their stay is blissful. And in fact, inappropriate reveries can be neither aside nor actually momentary, because Harry spends quite a bit of dinner warmly soaking up the looks they’re getting and the way Eggsy deliberately lets his accent go when he sees the look on Harry’s face, asks him a little loudly how to pronounce things Harry’s heard him say flawlessly before, eyes twinkling when he asks for tastes of things he’s suddenly never heard of from Harry’s fork. 

For all that, the food is incredible and does include a number of firsts for Eggsy: Harry would endure torture for the expression on his face when he becomes acquainted with grapefruit sorbet in pink champagne, which is to say nothing of the four other courses and two bottles of a very nice Beaujolais, none of which appear on their bill when they check out late the following morning, replaced with a politely apologetic and hopeful sign off from the Events Manager.

***

The date is booked, the venue chosen, the invites distributed and Eggsy sits on the living room floor, picking at an organza bag of sugared almonds he picked up at the day’s wedding fair whilst filtering through a stack of flyers.

“Oi, what we doing about names?”

It’s a sure sign of his comfort, when he begins an interjection with “ _ oi _ ” or “ _ ‘ere _ ”.

“Sorry?” 

“Well if one of us were a bird we’d be taking out husbands name.”

“Not necessarily.” It’s a surprise, really, that this is the first time he’s really given it any thought but in fairness to the pair of them, in the four months since their engagement Harry and Eggsy haven’t spent more than three nights in a row together, busy as they have been with poorly scheduled missions.

“Well, no I know not everyone, but most people do still, don’t they?”

“I think it’s entirely a matter of personal choice,” begins Harry, and the end of his sentence drops into place as though he was in any way prepared for this conversation, which he really should have been, and yet he finds his mind not quite willing to directly acknowledge it. “As it would also be for us, I suppose.” Almost casual, like it’s a nothing of a thing, he waits a beat, looking at a photographer's business card. “How  _ would _ you feel about being a Hart?”

“I’d love to, but … me dad, you know?” Eggsy  _ has _ thought about it: his response makes that much plain, even if he’s trying to ease the thought in casually. “There ain’t no more Unwins.” He looks conflicted and Harry finds he doesn’t quite want to look at that expression. “But it would have been so nice to have that, make it feel proper real.” 

“You could always double barrel.” 

“Can you just do that? I thought you had to be like, nobility or something.”

“Nonsense.”

“Huh.” Eggsy goes quiet for a moment. Harry hears an almond crunch and winces for his teeth. “Do you… want to match me? I don’t know if that’s a thing you can do but if I’m gonna have both names it would be nice if you did. Sure my dad would have thought that was proper sweet, you know?”

Harry’s memories of Lee Unwin are brief but respectfully fond, and usually these days totally removed from the context of the Unwin in his life now. He thinks of a kind, strong man, and can’t even fantasize that he knew him well enough to project how that man would feel about  _ any _ of what’s going on here, let alone Harry assuming their family’s name when he marries the son who was barely in school when he sacrificed himself so bravely for them all. It’s all scarcely believable to him as it is.

But Eggsy believes his father would approve, and that’s what matters; that’s what makes Harry’s chest ache so naturally he can’t let the feeling settle - swallows it, and it’s hard in his throat like a mouthful of food he hasn’t chewed enough but he manages to say “I’d like that very much.”

Eggsy nods his chin up, and goes back to his sweets and his pile of papers about engagement shoots and centrepieces and tablecloth rental and a world of other nonsense they’re paying a planner a fortune to sort out for them. A swatch book of fabric for Daisy and Roxy’s dresses or waistcoats once they decide which they’re having, and he keeps flicking back and forth between a sage green and a duck-egg blue, putting it down and then changing his mind. Harry is not consulted and is privately so pleased by that confidence that he doesn’t even mind what they end up with.

“My name has to go first though. Unwin-Hart. Hart-Unwin sounds like… “ He pops in an almond that’s the same colour as the silk square he’s squinting at and talks around it.. “Like  _ harrr _ -Tunwin. Makes me think of Tunnocks teacakes.” 

***

Wedding planning turns out to be a wondrous nonsense of a thing: alternately and- sometimes, somehow - simultaneously a joy and a headache, resulting in an unspoken understanding that if a couple can make it through a seating plan on speaking terms they clearly are ready for a lifetime commitment. 

It’s especially difficult when in between wine tastings and florists appointments you are also trying to save the world, but all non-critical missions are suspended from the three month point because absolutely nobody is allowed to die once Harry has finalised the table plan and submitted their menu choices to the caterers.

“Who the fuck is Hamish Burnett?” 

“Hmm? Oh, Merlin.”

Eggsy’s eyebrows shoot up to near right-angles. 

“No way is that his real name.”

“It isn’t. Merlin doesn’t have a real name.”

“Course he don't. That makes sense.” Egssy tuts. "What?"

Harry sighs. This isn’t something he’s tried to explain often, so he makes it as simple as he can.

“He  _ died _ in 1994 and has been off grid ever since, but we needed something to put on the seating plan because he’s the only person on top table having the fish.”

Eggsy hadn’t realised Merlin liked fish either, for what it was worth. It’s quite the exercise, but at least he doesn’t quibble with Harry’s plans to sit his own immediate family off to a side - they’ve met, that was quite enough - and the rest, however improbable on paper, sort of falls into place. 

Sort of. 

“No Harry, look, you can’t sit Ryan next to the Countess Von wherever that is.”

Harry peers at his own biro scrawl and picks up the Post-It representative of Ryan in consideration.

“No, you’re right, she’s a terrible influence. I’ll pop him the other side of her husband but I’m still not making any promises, to be honest.”

It's not the first time Eggsy wonders what the fuck sort of mess he's marrying into, but he doesn't mind exactly. 

***

Harry stands flawless in bow tie and tails, his hair in a looser but no less perfect sweep than he wears on any given day . The only thing missing is his gloves, which he’s removed to smoke a cigarette pinched with shaking fingers from the silver case in his pocket. He keeps it mostly so that he’s always able to offer if someone asks and partly for emergencies like today, and he stocked it exactly so that he wouldn’t end up going begging to some sympathetic member of kitchen staff. 

Of course Merlin catches him at it, comes striding across the patio like a schoolteacher about to give him a telling off until he cracks into a grin and holds his arms out for a hug of greeting. He looks magnificent in full Scots formal accented with his medals. How many more he should have. If crown and country had one bloody iota of an idea what he’d done for them. What they all have. Harry should be wearing his, according to the letter of the dress code, but jt it’s Harry’s damn dress code and he makes no bones about the fact he’s tweaked it so that everybody looks their best, hence their cummerbunds are a robin’s egg blue-green rather than the supposedly obligatory monochrome. 

Of course, he’s not actually seen Eggsy in his. Neither have seen the other, which feels like as close to what tradition would have they could manage.

“You don’t usually smoke.” Merlin ventures as though he’s reminding him, gentle chiding in his voice, but Harry’s having none of that.

“What is this, Airplane? I don’t usually have champagne for breakfast, either. I don’t marry men half my age often, Merlin, give me a break.”

But they’ve both had the wobble: it feels absurd, suddenly, thrown into such sharp focus.. Harry accepted his sexuality decades ago in the apparent knowledge that he would never marry; Eggsy has never really had to think about it at all in as much as that he’s barely had what can be called relationships; all of those with women; isn’t of the age where one necessarily even considers commitment and yet here they are.

Here they will be. If he turns up. If he hasn’t woken up this morning wondering what the everloving hell he’s doing committing his life to a scarred and waning latter middle aged man 

When they have irrefutable proof that he can wink the knickers off supermodels and charm the great and not so good with a smile, the tip of his hips, the thoughtful touch of his clever, clever hands...

Harry drops the butt of the cigarette into the bin, checks his watch and lights another, but not without offering one to Merlin.

“He’ll smell it on you, surely”.

That’s not an issue.

“Honestly, if he hasn’t been through three quarters of a pack of Benson and Hedges this morning I don’t know who the fuck I’m marrying.”

Merlin accepts defeat, and on second thoughts a cigarette. It’s not a vice he’s ever struggled with and there’ll be cigars later anyway, so he seems to accept Harry’s reasoning that usual e xpectations can be suspended this morning. 

Harry has a brief, perhaps almost hysterical chuckle to himself wondering how many of the patrons who have offered him wishes of luck or words of advice this morning put together that there is to be no bride at this wedding, and whether they were shocked. Whether they’d be more shocked….  _ How _ much more shocked they’d be when they saw that the other groom is not this dapper Scotsman wearing his middle age as regally as his combat medals but instead… 

… well, thinking about what Eggsy will look like when he arrives, about the nature of his arrival at all, is not doing anything favourable for Harry’s nerves. He’s never given any credence to wedding morning cold feet up until this moment, but the damndest thing is no matter how well he knows and loves his intended, this morning the voice started asking  _ what if he runs. What if it’s all been an elaborate joke and instead of watching them wed everyone’s here to see Harry exposed for a fool, to mock him for ever believing he could have someone like Eggsy, let alone marry him? _

The train of thought itself isn’t entirely alien. Sometimes Harry still gets most of the way into a kiss, his lips about to part Eggsy’s for that first thrilling touch of tongue and suddenly he thinks he’s about to wake up with his hand down his trousers and a really sickening guilt settled under his ribs, preparing for another day of tortuously pleasant knife-edge flirtation with someone who’s no more for him than he is for any of the others that look at him with that wistful hunger in their eyes.

But his heart knew it then and it knows it now. Eggsy is for him, somehow, and life for all its quirks and tragedies and foibles has been kind enough to bring them here.

Merlin appears to startle apropos of nothing, and of course,  _ of course  _ some part of his Best Man’s accoutrements has been modified so that he can keep his ear to the ground. Of course.

“Thank you La… Roxy.” He straightens his jacket and nods for Harry to make quick work of finishing his cigarette and his crisis, clearly ready for the off, smile warm and sparkling with the same nervous humour Harry can feel under his ribs. He feels sick, but on Merlin it just looks like excitement. “Well then. Let’s get you wed.”

*** 

Still grinning so hard his fucking face aches, Eggsy takes Harry’s hand as Roxy oh-so-politely basically tells everybody to get their arses into the ballroom but off the dance floor and their _sinfonia_ orchestra strikes up for their first dance. Harry’s hand is hot on his waist even through the layers of shirt and cummerbund - under the jacket, cheeky - and they step in close enough that he actually has to look up to met Harry’s eyes. It feels mental. Everyone’s full attention’s been on them both all day, obviously, and Eggsy was expecting to feel spread thin and distracted but his world in this moment is in the creases at the corners of Harry’s eyes, pronounced where he’s been smiling all day, sparkling even know; the curl of a dried rose petal from their confetti he finds somehow lodged in a fold of Harry’s bow tie that he picks out and drops to the floor as the dance begins.

The bastard thing is he can’t even remember what the fucking tune’s called. He always thought you were supposed to go for pop, for  _ your  _ song… not Elton John specifically but you know, whatever song was yours. But he couldn’t think that they really had one and everything seemed way too cheesy or too explicitly fucking  _ straight _ when you actually listened to the words… But then Harry had found this. A nice bit of classical Eggsy can’t remember the name of though he’s asked twenty times and feels like he should be able to know: someone’s fifty fourth opus or something, but it’s perfect for a nice slow mooch, looking into each other’s eyes, grinning like idiots and having to look away before the tears spring up again. It’s ridiculous. They’d had a few trial runs in the living room and even then he’d ended up with a lump in his throat, cracking jokes about Mr Pickles’ beady little glass eyes looking at them through the door just to stop himself losing it. Well, except for the time Harry decided to move his hold down to Eggsy’s arse and given him one of those nice slow, firm squeezes that make all the blood go south and before the song had even finished they were banging over the back of the sofa. 

Probably not the done thing, getting a semi when everyone’s watching you have your nice romantic first dance with your newly wedded husband, but they’re that close nobody can see and he lets one hand slip down almost onto Harry’s arse maybe to remind him, maybe just to feel and pull him closer still because he can, now. Doesn’t matter if those little gestures, the way they are together say  _ obviously fucking _ anymore, does it? It ain’t about speculation and rumours for them anymore. Literally everybody in this room knows they love each other. That’s why they’re here 

It makes Eggsy feel a bit giddily weird, a bit fluttery, all warm in the chest and stupid, like someone’s hung fairy lights round round the inside of his brain.

After a while others are encouraged to join them on the dancefloor and all Eggsy can think to say is “thought you was gonna go spare about the shoes,” because he nipped off before the dancing started to swap his polished patent brogues for baby blue glittery ones that so nearly match his cummerbund he ordered from a shop in Brighton. That’s not all he changed, but Harry hasn’t got that far yet.

“Not at all. I think I had a similar pair in the eighties, with a stack heel.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“I suppose I could say I was. I doubt there are any witnesses left except Merlin and I’ve seen him stand up to torture. He’ll never say a word.”

Eggsy snorts and wonders if he’ll remember this in years to come: the first bars of their first dance spent grinning stupidly at his new husband, the last spent trying to picture his dodgy dress sense ten years before Eggsy was even born. It doesn’t matter. It’s them, and it’s perfect. 

***

The dancefloor clears as if by silent instinct as Harry takes Eggsy into his arms for the opening bars of the _Libertango, _ and Eggsy grins at him, raises his eyebrows, the merest set of a challenge. They weren’t announced. They’ve had their proper first dance, after all. This? This is just showing off. 

Harry hadn’t really been expecting it to get this far when he suggested it; knows it’s an indulgence and he didn’t have his heart so set on it it would break, but Eggsy was as obliging as ever and apparently the correct answer to his simple “you trying to make people jealous?” was Harry’s honest “yes, a bit.” It’s not as though he doesn’t know. Harry taught him to dance; it doesn’t come up often but they enjoy it when they get the chance, he has to acknowledge they dance beautifully together and well,  If a man can’t get a touch of the Busby Barclays on his own wedding day, when can he? 

The arrangement of the piece is slower than usual to account for their longer stride, for the mood not of defiant celebration but of teasing, of dramatic tension and baited breath. Heaven forbid Harry even thinks the word  _ passion _ at this moment: he struggled to hold back tears during their vows, watching Eggsy’s shaking lip and gleaming green eyes, and that was four glasses of wine ago. His composure is in tatters, Eggsy is pressed very prettily against him and the juxtaposition of those facts is not one that bears a lot of thought when he needs to remember steps. 

As is instinctive, Harry leads. They’ve rehearsed, of course, as a showpiece, and they both know how to tango freestyle should anything veer off plan but it doesn’t; it’s instinctively perfect from the set of their shoulders to the smooth circle drawn with their touching extended toes; the clasp of the inside of Eggsy’s thigh to the outside of Harry’s, heel hooked behind his knee and pressing hard as he dips him back into a truly spectacular arch. Eggsy's had just enough to drink that he’s  _ dancing  _ as opposed to performing a dance, loose and natural, his limbs relaxed but his lines snapped sharp and god, does anybody  _ see _ , does anyone understand quite how perfectly matched and tuned you must be to flow like this, to share each other’s centre of gravity and move like you share one body between you?

But of course, some of them have seen them do this to the tune of gunfire, turning over and about each other to shield and cover, picking off enemies and reloading weapons where they’re currently pivoting and posing, letting the holds and caresses linger. By design it’s kept low and close, no lifts and no shying away from the sensuality of the whole dance. It’s not brazen but it’s there, solid and definite as their stances and they end the piece not in flair but standing chest to chest, sharing each other’s exhausted weight. 

The applause is thunderous; the cheering ecstatic and in places downright lewd. Harry couldn’t agree more with the sentiment and neither, by the feel of it, could Eggsy. 

Harry has His face pressed so close into the side of Eggsy’s that all he can see is the straight line of his teeth bared by the curve of his smile. He can smell Eggsy’s aftershave, his mouthwash; feel the thundering of his heart, the heaving of his lungs and the urgent press of his hips. 

“Can we stay here a minute?”

“I think that’s very wise.”

***

“Are you alright, my darling?”

“Yeah. Just well hot. Had a bit too much champagne I think. Shattered.” Eggsy’s cheeks are pleasantly flushed, his eyes bright but a little unfocused now, somewhere between the neverending drinks and the tiredness Harry was trying to pretend he wasn’t feeling. At least it’s not his age. 

“Happy?”

“So happy. It’s been so perfect.”

Harry runs the crook of a knuckle along Eggsy’s jaw.

“Have I told you quite how stunning you look?”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen yourself in that suit? You’re like… Prince Charming and James Bond and every bored housewife fantasy I can think of.” The earnestness of it sends a warm little flood through Harry's core, even still. 

“I’m not of the opinion the two need to be mutually exclusive.” Harry will save the extensive, terrible poetry he would like to spout about the way Eggsy looks in not-quite-white-tie for another occasion. _Devastating, _was the first word to spring to mind. “Perhaps we are beautiful. Perhaps we are just as lucky as everyone keeps reminding me I am. And I couldn’t agree more, of course.”

“You ain't the only one,” Eggsy manages around a yawn. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Almost eleven.” Harry had loosely marked midnight in his head as time to make their exit, but that seems grossly over optimistic now, for a number of reasons. “Should we just go to sleep?” It’s mostly a tease, but there’s a note of earnest sympathy. If Eggsy were to agree… no, he’d have to try to seduce him on pure principle but that’s not to say the temptation’s not there.

“I’m literally knackered. But if I don’t at the very least give you a blowie before bed on our wedding night I’ll never forgive myself.” Eggsy sweeps his eyes right the way down Harry’s body and they’re pink with tiredness but there’s heat there that catches something in Harry and makes it tingle. “Not with you looking like that.” Eggsy’s casual sexuality has its usual warming effect: a slow kind of burn entwined around the actual appeal of his suggestion, however offhand. “Wedding night! I’m fucking  _ married _ . Married! Good evening, Mister Unwin-Hart.”

Harry has been looking forward to playing this famous game at some point, and his lines are well enough prepared.

“Well good evening there, Mister Unwin-Hart. Has anybody told you how wonderfully that name fits you and how becoming your lovely suit is?”

Eggsy tucks a kiss under Harry’s chin and Harry can feel the puff of his laughter against his neck.

“Are you about to tell me how great I’d look out of it, or how great it would look on the floor?”

“I’d have gone for something along the lines of  _ if I were on you I’d be coming too.” _

Eggsy bursts into a genuine cackle, followed up with a gut punch of a wink. That’s how they ended up here, that wink; Harry’s certain of it. 

“Start saying your goodnights then.”

And there’s the sort of offer Harry fervently prays he’ll never turn down. He pulls back away from Eggsy - hands last, lingering - drinking in the sight of him in the twinkling ballroom lights, pinching the inside of his bottom lip In his teeth. 

Harry catches his reflection in the window as he turns. You’re just not supposed to look at people like that at his age. It’s ludicrous, how blatant his desire is on his face; how he and Eggsy keep meeting in quick glances across the ballroom as they circle in opposite directions and even now - fourteen hours on their feet and countless drinks into this magnificent, overwhelming day - what he sees there is hunger.

He’s so entranced it takes him two winks and one solid clap on the back to realise why the concept of retiring upstairs to bed when a party’s still in full swing on your wedding night is quite so amusing, which is doubly silly considering the reason for his distraction, and then when Eggsy comes and pulls at his hand, all silly grinning to his bashful wave, Harry can feel the shade of red his cheeks are going as a burn and can’t get out of the room quick enough. 

***

Harry unlocks their suite with a key - Eggsy’s strangely impressed by the lack of a swipe card - to a view he must have been half expecting, because he finds he’s not fully surprised that someone’s softly lit the room and scattered rose petals on the bed, put champagne to chill in a silver ice bucket. The idea of more alcohol at this point is vaguely nauseating but it certainly sets a scene. 

He’s thinking of a joke about how they’re to approach this when he finds himself hauled up into Eggsy’s arms, feeling every pound of his own body as drunk deadweight and gangly legs but Eggsy’s got him pulled right into his chest, thick forearms effortlessly strong under Harry’s arms and the back of his knees, right over what the room’s got to offer of a ‘threshold’, all the way to deposit him gently on the edge of the bed, dipping the rose petals into a flurry against his thigh. For the fraction of a moment he lays there, Harry wonders who the first person he can reasonably tell about that will be, and when. 

His head spins and it’s not just the drink, or the short flight: he had never imagined he’d have a wedding night, much less that he’d begin the significant portion being manhandled by a twenty five year old - ...well there are no superlatives for the fantasy Eggsy would be if he wasn’t real.

Eggsy kisses him gently, teasing, and backs away on some sort of seductive autopilot - god, they’ve got him well trained, and the fact he’s even  _ been _ relevantly trained shouldn’t do to Harry what it does - towards the ice bucket. He tips the bottle to read the label without lifting it out, eyebrows raising.

“That’s breakfast, then.”

Harry’s grateful for the reprieve but the sight of tuxedoed Eggsy standing abandoning a bottle of champagne to turn a hungry look - he’s just drunk enough to be sultry without realising - at Harry on his bed is an intoxicant he’s got all night for.

Excitement, arousal swoop up Harry’s body from balls to chest, where the feeling settles at the bottom of his throat, but he stands up whilst his knees will still hold him. There’s a hell of a lot of suit and trappings to get out of but under that gaze he’s naked already and Eggsy is not to be at all disappointed. Not tonight. Not ever, if he can help it.

***

“What’re you up for?” Eggsy breaks reluctantly from the suddenness of Harry’s kiss to pose the important questions, but Harry just isses off down his neck, pawing at his waist. They’ve been so sort of… well behaved, so gentlemanly, all day and in classic Harry fashion it’s all gone to shit within thirty seconds of a closed door. Eggsy’s never been more in love with him.

“Oh, everything.”

“Be real, Harry.”

They so rarely even have the conversation in words, either because it’s more obviously preordained or it just happens, and for some stupid reason this feels hugely significant, and Harry blinks at him, looking stumped.

“I rather felt the wedding night should be something of a … . A retrospective.”

Eggsy’s so tired, so actually tired that his skin hurts, and he honestly doesn’t think about it often but he’s got twenty-odd years on Harry. What the fuck.

“After the day we’ve had? You’ve got three weeks to give me a bloody good retrospective as many times as you want. Right now if I get to get off and fall asleep in your arms I’ll have had the perfect day, so how’s about we work on that?”

Save for appropriately briefly -someone’s got to whistle at you anyway, haven’t they, it’s the rules - during the ceremony and a couple of pecks for photos they’ve not really kissed today and it’s a wonder how much he needs it, now they’re getting stuck in. Harry seems to feel the same, at least, attacking his mouth with the sort of frenzy that used to be for coming home safe, for borrowed or stolen moments when they weren’t supposed to be doing whatever they were about to be doing but it was all too new, too urgent to stop. Eggsy remembers believing once that marriage went with boredom, with settling down and comfort, but there’s no settling the excitement up under his ribs and nothing comfortable about how hard he is in his unforgiving dress trousers. How hard they both are.

Eggsy is used to a suit now, stopped feeling oppressed and strangled by a collar and tie a long time ago but a stiffly starched, double buttoned wing collar is something else altogether. He’s resisted fidgeting with his bow tie all day because it took him four tries to get it right this morning, until Roxy had shrieked at him to leave it the fuck alone or he’d be so late Harry would fuck off to the Maldives without him, and they’re not even flying out until tomorrow afternoon. But Harry’s there, long nimble fingers trailing as slowly as he can manage up Eggsy’s chest, bringing him out in goosebumps through the smooth cotton of his shirt.

“And you’re going to let me do that for you.” Harry’s fingers slip under Eggsy’s collar and pull the tie loose, pulling deftly at his buttons until they give and for the first time since what feels like a silly hour of this morning Eggsy feels cool air against his collarbones, which is almost as worth moaning at as the sudden touch of Harry’s mouth. It shouldn’t be unexpected. It isn’t, in that he knew Harry would go straight for his neck but the skin had been blandly pressed under starched cotton for so long the feel of his lips and tongue is far more quenching than he’d been imagining. He goes to moan some nonsense about the feeling but Harry beats him to it.

“God, you smell wonderful.”

How is this his husband? Eggsy can’t quite pull the day’s events into believable context, and part of that’s because the sexiest man he’s ever seen - yeah, he’s biased, he’s allowed to be, but probably not by much - is impatiently trying to undress him whilst kissing all the hot spots on his neck. Not only had he managed to get his hands on, all over, someone like Harry Hart but he’d managed to put a bloody ring on it. Life doesn’t bear scrutinising too close, sometimes, in case the bubble pops.

Eggsy gives into in to it then; stops trying to strip or even thinking about it and loses himself fully in the attention of Harry’s mouth and hands, in trying to give as good as he gets, and satisfy the urge to get closer,  _ closer.  _ There’s no background television or radio; no traffic; no birdsong or dog claws on parquet; just spit and skin - the world a silent stage for love, for sex, more pertinently at that moment, the soft urgent sounds they still make when they’re kissing and rubbing off...

… Interrupted when Harry finally gets his belt and fly open and gets a look at Eggsy’s pants. Eggsy’s been waiting for that. 

“Good  _ lord. _ Are these-?” Eggsy’s trunks are, in fact, pale blue lace - the closest he could get to their theme and a perfect match for the shoes that are off glittering in a corner now. He’d not quite managed to forget about them because the fabric is odd and clingy but since he got Harry’s hands on him that’s just sort of faded into the fuzzy general feeling of warmth and holding and pleasure, and it was half supposed to be a joke but Harry’s reacting exactly how he might have hoped. “You had these on when…”

“Nah, I changed when I came up to get my shoes. Didn’t want to be fidgeting around.” It wouldn’t have felt right, somehow, like he wasn’t taking it seriously, and the last thing anybody needs is wedding pictures where they think they’re getting away with sorting their weird lace wedgie out. “And they’re well sweaty.”

“Mmm.” 

Okay, so the last comment may have been thrown in just because Harry has made his feelings about hot wet lace apparent on several occasions, in various contexts, so it was a pretty safe bet even if only for the few moments’ amusement of Harry dropping to the floor and gratefully nosing at him through the briefs, putting the flat of his tongue against the lace over the head of Eggsy’s cock - 

“- yeah, alright, there’s two more pairs packed for the honeymoon, come on. ‘nough of that.”

Harry is not deterred, happily smooching along the line of Eggsy’s erection in a way that could be silly but his mouth is scorching hot and Eggsy can just about feel the wet inside his lips through the lace and he might just lose his mind.

“What colours?”

“ _ What colours.  _ Black, and - stop it! - pink.”

“Mmm.” Harry has a special weakness for Eggsy in anything pink, they both know it, so that soothes him enough for Eggsy to draw him away but only as far as back up for more snogging, and Eggsy feels that as a wonderful tightening right in his core now, Harry’s hand cupping his hard-on through the lace... 

This was not the plan. It was only supposed to be a joke, really, and maybe a nice little hint at the sort of filth they might get up to on the honeymoon before getting on with the actual slow romantic shag this was meant to be, taking it proper seriously … but Eggsy’s in that nice warm bit of tipsy and quickly remembering how fucking lovely getting stroked and licked through lace feels, and forgetting why they should stop. He distinctly remembers - now Harry’s groping the fabric against him again, murmuring into his mouth about how much the look of it turns him on, grinding on him - spending ten minutes after the other time he wore lace for Harry thinking that he might do it every fucking day because of that feeling. The electric thrill of the touch, muted and magnified by the layer between their skin. The hot squeeze of his cock up against his body, tighter still as he pulses rock-hard and wanting under Harry’s gently eager hand. The way Harry went nuts for the peek of flimsy, fancy lace through the fly of Eggsy’s jeans… it’s a thing for him, obviously, and it was only the fear of wearing that out that stopped Eggsy going out and buying a pair for every day of the week.

If any night was worth it though, this is it. Harry wriggles his hand down the elastic of the waistband and in, and Eggsy feels the ghost of cool air where he’s wet with excitement and he’s proud of that, not shy anymore, eager for the reward of Harry gasping when he feels it, like he always does. 

Fuck it. Eggsy wants to feel how carried away Harry’s getting in more than just the pulls of his hands and the puffing of his breath. A second’s surprisingly coordinated handiwork and he’s into Harry’s trousers, opened his fly and got a handful of his rigid, throbbing cock.

Surprise would be a little unfair: they’ve had a fair bit to drink but Eggsy had felt Harry’s erection as a good stiff bulge through his suit…. but Harry’s closer to where Eggsy himself is, rock hard and more worked up than he expected to be by this point, realising fast that this is not headed the way of tender sweet nothings unless they apply the brakes  _ quick.  _

Eggsy gets his hand in the back of Harry’s hair and pulls him back in for a proper kiss, deep and sloppy and hard enough to feel his lips catching on Harry’s teeth and Harry grinds against him, trapping their hands between their bodies and backing him against the nearest item of furniture, sucking down Eggsy’s neck again when he turns away to speak. 

“Thought you wanted to … _ oh _ ,  _ fuck.” _

_ “ _ We’ve got a lifetime, as it happens.”

They have, and it strikes Eggsy suddenly right in the heart, makes him look at Harry and meet his eyes for a second's pause in which someone should say  _ I love you _ and the other should tell them to fuck off, sharpish, before someone starts crying so instead there’s just eye contact and shaky, sweet smiles before it all collapses into kisses and rutting with their hands trapped between their bodies.

Eggsy reels as Harry rubs at him, leaves half- bites all over his jaw and collarbones and he turns his head so Harry can properly suck on his neck. Eggsy  _ loves _ that, Harry knows it: loves that prickly feeling and the idea of the mark left behind. He nips at Harry to spur him on, to tell him its good, and Harry retaliates with a proper seize of teeth that sends that bolt of lightning straight to the base of Eggsy’s prick, makes him moan through his nose.

“That’s it, darling, is that good?”

Harry knows what it does to him, and it’s a rare treat he does it because  _ everyone’ll know what you’ve been up to  _ but of course that doesn’t need saying tonight and that makes Eggsy flush all hot as well, however silly it is: right this second, people are definitely thinking about them in bed together. In  _ bed,  _ making love sweet and slow, not desperately fumbling up against what’s probably a priceless antique dresser, still dressed and barely in the fucking door with their hands on each other’s cocks, hard and hot and wanting .

It doesn’t matter that it’s they’re both a bit fumbly with drink and tiredness: Eggsy wants to spend as long on this lovely trembling height of pleasure as he can. Harry sounds much the same as Eggsy clumsily works his cock, helps him get under shirt and stupid sash thing so that the slippery head of his prick skates across the soft muscle of Eggsy’s belly; all the  _ Oh god _ s and the  _ fuck _ s like the early days, like he isn’t used to how this feels, like they haven’t done so many more exciting things. 

...but have they, really? Can he really call anything more exciting than handjobs this quick and this dirty, barely enough out of their wedding tuxes to get hands on each other and already so close that Eggsy’s soaked with sweat and shaking, knees threatening to give out on him at any second, hairs all on end?

God, he needs to come.

Eggsy rolls a tongue’s spit into his palm, tasting Harry on it, desperate for them both, and uses it to slick his grip, to rub Harry loosely between his hand and his body. Something’s working for Harry, making him buck his hips impatiently and grab handfuls of Eggsy’s hips to pull them together, to push him back into the dresser and breathe hot in his ear.

“Eggsy, I can’t - ”

“Can’t come like this?” That's alright, understandable. Eggsy’s got moments left in him and then Harry can have his full attention, his hands, his mouth, whatever. Eggsy’s just got to get off.

“Can’t  _ stop.” _

Or that. That’s perfect, like everything’s been perfect. Eggsy kisses Harry firmly, his own cock pulsing at the sloppy rolls of Harry’s tongue, the wet heat of his almost still hand; kisses out the dry little gasps that catch in his throat as his pace picks up and Eggsy’s thrilled to get to watch Harry come apart; thrilling with every stuttered roll of Harry’s hips, the way he looks like he’s wincing and buries his face in Eggsys neck as he holds his breath, teetering on the very precipice of bliss.

That’s enough for Eggsy; this incredible man, his  _ husband  _ … it’s a weird thought to come to but Eggsy looks down and sees the light catching off the wide platinum band gleaming from Harry’s finger where it’s grabbing a fistful of his stupid lacy pants, feels his own thick and solid between his fingers as he grabs a better hold in the back of Harry’s shirt and pulls him half on top of him back on the dresser, just so that when Harry comes it’s on Eggsy’s belly and not the floor, Eggsy doing all the work to rut his cock into Harry’s slack fist but it doesn’t matter by then.

His orgasm is fast and violent, lightning cracking across his nerves that makes him cry out and almost rip right through Harry’s sweat-damp shirt with his nails.

In the silence after, so thick and thorough that he Eggsy can hear his pulse in his own eardrums between their ragged breathing, he wonders quite how loud that was… not like it matters. They must have most of a floor to themselves and again, it strikes him that fuck it, this is what’s expected of them tonight… or something like it, but there’s time.

“ I think I’ve got a commitment fetish,” he says once he gets enough breath, mostly to make Harry laugh, and Harry does, dropping onto his back in the drape of rose petals . 

He looks a bit ridiculous, flopped out in that oh-so-high-class tuxedo with his trousers round his thighs, but then Eggsy’s in a similar state except the snug fit of the lace trunks means they’ve stayed up, sat back into place hugging his sated and sensitive junk, which would be quite comforting if it weren’t for the come seeping though the holes between the filigree of the lace. Eggsy pulls at it dazedly.

"This is disgusting. Like one of them doily patterns you do on sponge cakes, with spunk."

"Oh well, you've got two more pairs" says Harry, in a tone of voice that absolutely betrays his intention to make Eggsy do that to all of them. Yeah, well. They’ve got three fucking weeks of sun, sea and pina coladas with no particular entertainment planned but each other’s company. It’s bound to get a bit nasty, and Harry doesn’t even know what else Eggsy’s packed.

Eggsy doesn’t know what Harry’s packed, for that matter.

They laboriously manage to drag themselves out of the rest of their clothes - that’s less fun now, suddenly, more of a faff, who the fuck invented  _ dress socks _ \- and clamber more onto the bed than in it, too warm and sticky and just plain knackered to bother with the covers. It all hits Eggsy in a rush when he flops down and he finds himself giggling, madly… at the hasty sex, at the state of them, all of it really, grinning into a pillow like a fool and when Harry lays back down beside him, naked at last, he can’t help a patronising slap on his thigh.

“Get up early enough and I’ll give you a proper go before breakfast.”

“I want a divorce.” 

“Well you definitely ain’t gettin’ an annulment.”

Harry scoffs and throws his forearm over his eyes whilst he gropes for the light switch.

“I’ll swear blind you haven’t impinged upon my virtue.”

Eggsy kisses up his neck, sucking the sweat off. He hasn’t got another round in him now, he’s barely got the strength to keep his head up and grin down at Harry but morning will be a different story. “I’ll make sure you walk like you’re lying.”

Harry groans at him again but Eggsy knows he’s tempted - if only so they pitch up to breakfast with that just-fucked glow: he knows what Harry’s like - and they snuggle onto their backs, rucking the bedding until Eggsy finds himself totally pillowed in the soft heaven of expensive duvet, with Harry tucked into the crook of his arm, tracing his sleepy-comfy patterns on Eggsy’s chest with the back of a nail. He’s pretty sure breakfast is served until eleven - only polite to show their faces, right? - and there’s a bottle of legit French champers to start the day off with first. 

Married life is the absolute tits. 

***

Harry wakes up to a mild headache and legs wrapped around his, clammy hot and angular and there’s nowhere he’d rather be. Eggsy is murmuring as he sometimes does just before he wakes - contentedly, on balance likely to be about to say something totally surreal and deny all knowledge of it on waking - and pale light is beginning to tickle under the thick velvet drapes of their suite. Not time to get up just yet.

Having just about assured himself he isn’t dreaming, Harry dozes back off and finds himself re-awoken with a glass of champagne pressed insistently into his hand that he groans at the thought of until Eggsy abandons him with it to sink down on Harry’s cock with a mouthful of bubbles and  _ holy christ  _ does that wake him up. It’s a lovely indulgent, ridiculous sort of romp that leaves shiny wet patches dotted all over the sheets amidst errant rose petals, gleaming in the morning sunshine, and for all there’s no actual fucking in the strictest sense by the time they’ve made their way through the bottle Eggsy’s come twice and Harry’s grateful to be spent on just the one orgasm because it’s so luxuriously thorough and powerful he feels completely wrung out by it, like he might actually have trouble walking, and it’s barely nine in the morning.

They could get breakfast by room service, of course, but they don’t need to discuss why that’s not something either of them put forward. 

Harry dresses casually, prepared for travel later. His hair is an unspeakable state better left as a loose sweep of curls - any attempt to tame it into a proper style now will be far too conspicuous; the pink in his cheeks from the sex and the champagne isn’t ebbing at all despite a cool shower and a strong coffee, and he's not so sure the grey circles under his eyes are that unflattering, in context. 

He eyes the darkest mottled bruise under Eggsy’s ear whilst Eggsy’s staring distractedly into his open suitcase.

“What did you bring to wear today?”

“Hedged my bets.” He turns and holds his choices up under his chin: a proper shirt in a nice dove grey that has a tie rolled in the pocket, and a blue polo shirt.

Harry’s fingers linger over the polo shirt, splaying out the neck whilst he steps close enough to lip at Eggsy’s jaw, just to remind him, as if he hasn’t obviously just spent the entire time he was brushing his teeth smugly admiring his own marks in the mirror. 

“Would it be terrible of me…? If I just wanted to leave no room for doubt that you’d been taken care of on your wedding night? I can’t bear the idea someone might look and think _ old codger was probably asleep by ten, left that poor gorgeous thing … _ ”

“Oh no. Definitely can’t have that.” Eggsy grins and throws the polo shirt on the bed, going for Harry’s belt loops. “Though you know, we haven’t actually....”

“You hard done-by soul. Three weeks to sort that out. However will you cope?”

“Easy. Ryan chucked viagra in my stag bag. As a joke, but...” He ticks his tongue.

Something hot and strange flares up the back of Harry’s head. In some way any third party reference to their sex life is somehow exciting, that transparency of a long vacation with nothing to do but each other, but still. 

“I am entirely incensed by the implication.”

Eggsy scoffs.

“As if. They know what you’re like. I think it’s for _me_.”  
  


***

An unexpected perk of being a newly married spy: their wealth of documents for various aliases meant there was adequate time to have their civilian passports changed before the trip. Their lifestyle also affords them Club Class and Harry these days is not in the slightest perturbed by the looks Eggsy’s hat and trainers combo get him: he could choose not to, if he wanted, but he doesn’t. They can play with that later.

It is only due to a comment at the boarding gate that Harry realises that having the same last name does no favours at all on the people presuming they’re father and son front. 

They’re going to have to get used to that. 

But then, given the way Eggsy makes a point of it entwining their left hands, rings demonstrated, as he pressed back against Harry’s front in a way that’s unmistakably, searingly intimate, Harry’s going to have to get used to the fact he doesn’t mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. COmments, kudos, flailing always welcome. Writing's a joy but it's not always easy!  
You can find me on [twitter ](https://www.twitter.com/agentsnakebite) and [ tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/randomactsofviolence).  
Much love.


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